


Out of the Pit, Into the Light

by EdnaV



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angels Becoming Humans, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Bliss, Family Feels, Hope, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Marriage, Mortality, She/Her Pronouns For God (Good Omens), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24513436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have a choice: an eternity in Hell's deepest pit, or a life as human beings.Once again, they choose humanity. It's a good life, even if it's not going to last forever.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 55





	Out of the Pit, Into the Light

**Author's Note:**

> It meant a lot to me to tell this story. I don't know if it's a sad one; in a way, I don't think that it is.
> 
> There's some violence in the first part of the story. The Major Character Death is... well, I suppose that it depends on your faith and beliefs.
> 
> A world of thank you to my beta, [robynthemagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/)

Everything was cold, and they were surrounded by darkness. 

They'd been expecting it. It didn't make it any better. If anything, it was worse: they'd been down there since they'd been captured, maybe even longer; they'd felt the fall before actually falling.

And yet, they'd been taken by surprise. Another ambush in St James's Park. They'd counted on Heaven and Hell to be original. They were wrong. 

_ It was bound to happen, _ Crowley had said. 

_ I should've protected you better,  _ Aziraphale had insisted. 

They'd talked in whispers: they had to show that they were of one mind, that nothing could ever come between them. They had given neither angels nor demons the satisfaction of seeing them cry either; not even when Sandalphon had wounded Aziraphale's right arm so deeply that he'd let his sword drop, not even when Crowley had stumbled and Hastur had dragged him by the hair. 

They'd found themselves in the courtroom of Hell. Beelzebub was on zir throne, Dagon and Michael gloating at zir side. Ze had smiled at them, and ze'd said only three words. 

_ Hell's deepest pit.  _

At first it had looked like just a hole in the ground. Hastur had had the honour of kicking them down: first Aziraphale, then Crowley. 

He'd cut the ropes that had tied their arms so tight that they had been able to feel the bruises as they were forming, and halfway through the fall into the pit they'd managed to get hold of each other's hand. They hadn't let go. They were never going to let go. 

Eventually, they'd found themselves sitting on the ground. There were no walls to lean onto. No lights. No sounds, except their breath. A smell of stagnant water permeated everything.

They hadn't spoken. Not in words. Crowley had squeezed Aziraphale's hand: it was enough. It said everything that mattered:  _ we won't be apart. Never. Our side. That, they can't take away.  _

Aziraphale had squeezed Crowley's hand in return, softly, before fainting from the pain and the loss of blood. 

He'd soon come back to his senses, of course. There was no point throwing them into the darkness to watch each other go mad if they'd been unconscious. 

He'd sat up a bit straighter. Attempted a polite smile that nobody could see. Felt like he'd recovered a bit of a dignity that he'd never actually lost. 

He'd found Crowley's shoulder, and rested his head there. 

They were surrounded by the darkness, and they were holding on to each other. Nothing more. Nothing less. And no way out.

Crowley knew he had to break the silence. He'd been taught how a place like that was meant to work: your senses slowly dulled from lack of use, your identity melted away in the darkness and the silence. Sooner or later, it never failed.

He could've asked about Aziraphale's arm; but you don't spend six thousand years in love with someone without learning how they move when their pain is slowly subsiding, but still raw enough that a reminder might bring it back in full.

He could've asked,  _ how long have we fallen?  _ but it woudn't have made any sense: Hell's time zone was notoriously  _ always too soon and always too late.  _

He thought about asking,  _ still a demon here; are you still an angel? _ but he already knew the answer. There was nothing in the world or in Heaven or in Hell that could've stripped Aziraphale of his angelic nature. Even God would've had to beg for permission, probably. 

But he couldn't bear a second more of that pitch-black stillness.

He had to say something. 

_ We saved the world, once,  _ he thought.  _ We have to hope that we can save ourselves. _

And he suddenly knew what he had to say.

_ "It was a nice day,"  _ he began.

Aziraphale went on. 

_ "All the days had been nice."  _

He paused, so that Crowley could continue.

_ "There had been rather more than seven so far, and rain hadn't been invented yet." _

Aziraphale told the story of how the Serpent's name was Anthony J Crowley, and he'd always refused to say what the J stood for.

Crowley told the story of how the Angel's name was Aziraphale, but he'd chosen to go by Mr Fell, and they both knew why, and they never discussed it.

They reminded each other of who they had been. Of who they were. Of six thousand years that they'd spent together, if not in their corporations, always in their minds and souls. 

Eventually, the story led them back into the pit. 

_ "It was a nice day,"  _ Aziraphale said.

They went through the story again, and again. Every time, they remembered a little more. A tiny detail of an embroidery in Paris, the flavour of a dessert at the Ritz, the smell of the roses in Hyde Park. That time they laughed at a production of  _ Much Ado About Nothing  _ in the West End. The wind on their faces after they'd gone back into their corporations in Berkeley Square. They could not tell if it had happened years or centuries or hours ago, but it didn't matter: as they were remembering, it was their here and now.

Eventually, they knew what they had to do. Or at least what their options were.

It was Aziraphale, ever the warrior, who spoke up.

_ "I miss the world,"  _ he said. Then, almost in a hurry, he added,  _ "but it's up to you too." _

Crowley shivered. It was a terrifying choice, but it had to be made.

_ "Are you sure, angel?" _ he asked.

_ "We would be bound by other laws, with other... well, punishments; or rewards, if that were the case. Of that I'm quite sure. Unfortunately, I'm not sure... well, I don't know almost anything about the rest."  _ Aziraphale sighed and bit his lips. Only the idea of losing Crowley scared him more than the inevitable conclusion.  _ "I don't know what's going to be of us...  _ afterwards," he whispered.

_ "None of  _ them _ knows, though. Right? It's part of what makes them...  _ them. _ And you know, I've always liked  _ them." Crowley sighed as someone who's cast a weight off his shoulders. _ "So, I guess I'm in." _

_ "Have you considered that there will be no going back?"  _ Aziraphale asked.  _ "There won't be a way to stop time, ever. The world only spins forwards." _

_ "I know. I'm fine with that. Just... one thing." _

_ "What?" _

_ "If I kept on calling you 'angel'..." _

_ "...I'd love that, my dear boy." _

_ "Good." _

Slowly, as one, they drew a deep breath.

_ "Together, my dear?"  _

_ "Always, angel." _

They clicked their fingers. 

They were in the bookshop.

The air was filling their lungs, then going out, then back in, and out. 

Their heartbeat was almost deafening.

They could feel the heat of the summer, and they knew that there was nothing they could do except wearing lighter clothes or buying a fan. 

They were alive. 

How long it was going to last, that was anybody's guess. 

Both of them had given some thought to the matter, of course. Even if you're escaping an eternity in Hell's deepest pit, you still consider the downsides of becoming mortal. Aziraphale expected to live another twenty years, and hoped that Crowley could have a few more. Crowley, ever the optimist, expected them both to live at least half a century and that he'd never be a widower.

There were a few practical matters, but they were solved in a couple of days. Aziraphale already had a passport. Crowley had three. There was still a hefty sum in both of their bank accounts, and the keys to the Mayfair flat were still working. The Bentley had been towed away; the fact that Crowley had never learned how to drive didn't help. Aziraphale hurriedly bought an alarm system for the bookshop, now that it was no longer perternaturally protected.

"Are you going to actually sell books, now?" Crowley teased him.

"Well, I hoped that being less attached to my material possessions will lead my immortal soul to rest in a better place," Aziraphale replied, smiling like a man who's never been happier in his life, nor more serious.

The opening times never followed a regular schedule, but a few books were sold. The scrolls who'd been kept from crumbling only by a literal miracle found their way to the British Library, and so did most of the ancient prophecy books and Bibles. 

Aziraphale had tried to donate them as discreetly as possible, but the PhD students at Senate House set up a betting pool for "find the angel who gave us material for 10 theses, 25 scholarships, and 72 talks"; someone managed to ask the right questions, and within a few months Aziraphale had been invited to "hang out at the department and tell us a bit about yourself,  _ seriously, man, we're going to be discreet if you're a spy or anything like that, but we really have to know, and it's not like there's many people with whom we can geek out about 14th century binding techniques." _

The "whom" warmed Aziraphale's heart. 

He brought cake. 

The students were, indeed, discreet. They believed him, but they knew that not many would believe them. It was fine. As Amira always said, "numbers don't matter, as long as we stick together. And don't make a joke about the Dewey Decimal System, Yair, for the love of everything that's holy and good in this world."

Aziraphale thought that Amira was a very wise young lady. No time for nonsense, sometimes a bit too quick to anger, always a bit in love with everyone around her, in her own way. She reminded him of his Mother. 

Sometimes he wondered if it was too late for him and Crowley to have a child.

One day, as Crowley was busy with his guitar lessons, Aziraphale put on the "closed" sign, and went in a shop he'd been eyeing for a while. As he was paying, Crowley appeared behind his left shoulder. 

"I guess that gender roles were good for something, after all," Aziraphale muttered to himself.

Crowley heard him. 

"Don't be an idiot, angel. We have ten fingers, we can wear two wedding rings."

They thought that the guest list was going to be very short. 

They were very wrong. 

Crowley had the mates from the queer volunteering group, the ones from the creative writing workshops, his guitar teacher and her "I'm not sure if she's into me but I want to ask her out, is that a problem?", and the two waiters from the coffee place in Berwick Street. 

Aziraphale had his scholarly-minded friends, his siblings in the inter-faith group, and a few people who he'd come to think of as "my most valued customers."

And most of the guests brought a bit of their families: some came with a partner, others with a mother, or a daughter, or three nephews. The total count was in the three digits. 

Crowley was worried that Aziraphale might be bored by Helen's rambling about indie music. When he overheard them comparing notes on Janelle Monáe and The Magic Flute, he felt that all was well.

Aziraphale was a bit afraid of introducing Amira to Crowley: both of them were able to turn any topic into an argument. They got on like a house on fire. As he watched them debate about how Paul could never decide how to close a letter, he wondered if he didn't already have a child.

When Yair finally said  _ something _ and Amira asked Aziraphale to walk her down the aisle, he knew that  _ he did, _ in fact, have  _ at least _ one child. He mentioned this discovery to Crowley, who rolled his eyes and sighed, "took you long enough, angel."

They had their fights. It took Aziraphale five years to let go of his grudge for that time Crowley had forgot to book at the Ritz. When Aziraphale had forgot to water his basil, Crowley had called him "plant killer"; the "killer" hadn't had the good sense not to snicker, and what was meant to be a pleasant dinner had descended into a shouting match. Crowley never turned off the lights, Aziraphale had a tendency to hog the blankets.

But their good days were many more than the fights. Some of them were almost perfect, and, having seen perfection, both of them prized that "almost." Crowley could walk on consecrated ground, and he actually enjoyed a visit Canterbury Cathedral. Aziraphale admitted that superhero movies weren't too bad. In summer, the little flat above the bookshop was filled with light. 

A few things turned into a routine that was sweeter than any excitement: tea and scones every Sunday afternoon, the Natural History Museum on the first of every month, roses and carnations on their anniversary. Crowley was always the first one to say goodnight, Aziraphale was always the first one to greet his husband in the morning. 

Time went on, as time is wont to do.

Eventually, the crates of books became too heavy to move, even with the help of two assistants; and taking the Tube didn't agree with Crowley's knees. Helen's wife wanted to open a small museum of queer history, but too many potential donors had asked her to sugarcoat this, and that,  _ and do you actually have to bring up racism?  _

The paperwork took less than an afternoon.

They bought a nice cottage in the South Downs. They almost didn't fight over the renovation of the kitchen. They settled down, knowing that it was going to be their last home for the foreseeable future. They often had guests. They gave shelter to some.

One evening, as Crowley was trying to teach Yair and the kids how to knit, Aziraphale got a bit tipsy and confessed something to Amira. She smiled, she told him not to worry, and she reassured him of her discretion. A while later, while Aziraphale was berating Yair for not calling his mother more often, Crowley confessed to her the same thing, and she gave him the same reply. 

Aziraphale had always underestimated how many years they had left to live. Crowley knew that he was often a bit too optimistic. Neither of them wanted to leave the other, and neither of them wanted to be left behind; of that, they both had always been sure. It wasn't surprising, but Amira was glad that they'd openly told her. A bit honoured, even. 

She'd been slightly annoyed that both of them had compared her to their Mother, "but only the good parts." 

She was quite attached to her worst part as well, they made her who She was,  _ thank you very much. _

But, after all, it was just a small thing. A small grace. They'd been good people, She told Herself; as far as people can be good. And anyway, It would've been a gift, not a reward, and She knew the difference better than anyone. 

They fell asleep in each other's arms. 

They didn't really expect it. They couldn't know what to expect.

It felt like moving into a soft, warm, light.

**Author's Note:**

> So... thank you for coming this far.
> 
> I don't know what's going to happen in that soft, warm, light. I don't even know if something's going to happen. It might.
> 
> If you let me know what you think about it in the comments, you're going to make me a happy writer.


End file.
